


a lo lejos alguien canta

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6413071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rafinha gets injured and discovers healing is a process.<br/>Or,<br/>Rafinha gets injured, Thiago isn’t there, and it’s harder than he imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lo lejos alguien canta

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired mostly by [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/BDM491ACc2P/?hl=en) and [this](http://solorafinha.tumblr.com/post/141377360762/when-rafa-is-hungry-and-see-a-birthday-cake-on-the). Also, the hundred other ways in which the Alcântara brothers break my heart. 
> 
> i'm about a thousand years late, but this fic came to life because i wanted to comfort a friend. dear jo, i would probably never have turned my ALL-CAPS SHOUTY FEELS into something more without you. so, you're lovely, and hella useful, and i hope you know that.
> 
> spoons, şukufe, SPOONS!

There’s a sharp edge underneath the lazy breeze as he jogs along the curve of Carretera de les Aigües.

He should’ve worn a coat. He should’ve stayed inside. He should’ve gone to sleep, but…

Rafinha tugs the sleeves of his hoodie up over his knuckles as the phone continues to ring in his ear. He shouldn’t be calling at this hour, but.

 _Three_ , he counts, exhale visibly puffing before him in a broken shard of moonlight. _Four_. It dissolves in wisps as he rubs his hands together. 

 _Five_.

“ _Hola, you’ve reached Thi--_ ”

He hangs up.

Barcelona sprawls out before him, bright city lights twinkling defiantly against the looming Spanish night. He blows out a deep breath, but it doesn’t seem to ease the heaviness in his lungs. His chest aches in waves, maybe from the cold, he thinks.

He rubs a hand over his face, considers calling Rodrigo or Diogo, but they carry too much of him. His thumb stops over Neymar. He’s the closest to safe, he supposes. His first, not inherited like so much else.

If he explains it to Neymar, he’ll understand. His thumb hovers over the call button, twitching forward when it buzzes to life in his palm. He nearly drops it.

“Thiago.”

“Rafa.”

They never use greetings, like they’re continuing one long conversation they’ve been having for ages.

His voice is pitched low, rough with sleep. “Warm milk and honey doesn’t work anymore?”

It surprises a chuckle out of Rafinha.

If he closes his eyes, he’s five and crawling closer to the stove before Thiago swats at his hand. He’s only seven but his glare is every bit Mazinho, enough that Rafinha stops, turns until he can sit on his hands.  

“It only works for as long as you know the words for what you’re afraid of,” he says now.  

“Whatever is meant to happen, will happen,” Thiago replies, soft and easy, like it seems to be for him.

Rafinha shrugs, then remembers.

“Maybe.”

“Always in such a rush, hermanito.” Rafinha can hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m ready,” he insists, scratches at a spot in his thick beard.

“That’s your heart talking, not your body. And your body is what all the trainers and physios are taught to listen to.”

“My _body_ feels ready,” he retorts.

Thiago huffs in amusement.

“Your heart’s always been louder than most. So, yo--Eh?” Thiago’s voice calls out, unsettlingly loud in his ear. Then distant, like his mouth’s no longer against the speaker. “I will, in just a minute. Si.”

It’s not for Rafinha.  

He purses his lips, feels his free hand curl into a fist and slowly unclench on his lap. Silently, he waits, remembers.

_He’s impatient, but Thiago carefully measures out two spoonfuls of honey before adding them to the small pot of milk on the stove. Rafinha watches his hands move around, stirring the mixture, grabbing the handle, pouring it equally into two mugs._

Thiago sighs in his ear.

_He’s blowing into both mugs when Rafinha’s leg starts to jiggle and Thiago’s hand curls around his ankle in response. Immediately he stills, feels the warmth spread through him even before he takes a sip of the drink. Around them, the house is sweetly silent, and for a moment, it feels as though they’re the only two people left in the world._

_It’s what Rafinha loves best of all._

He forces his eyes open.

“You have to let yourself heal fully, or you’ll just be in pain forever. It takes as long as it takes.”

Rafinha nods, then remembers again.

“Yeah.”

“You know…” Thiago’s breathing fills the line. Rafinha isn’t expecting it when he hears, “you can always call. Even if I can’t…”

He trails off and the silence sags heavily underneath the weight of what isn’t, _can’t_ be said.

“Yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow with...I’ll call either way.”

“Sleep.”

“You too.”

“Call me.”

 _You too_ , he very nearly says but he understands. There are things Thiago has to do, people he has to be. There are more than miles in the distance that keeps them apart. Rafinha understands, or, he tries.

 

 

He’s learned not to mind unfamiliar hands on him, has had enough of them in the half year he’s been out. But the prodding of cold metal still makes him anxious, reminds him only of operating rooms and the worst news delivered in carefully even tones.

Reggaeton plays low in the background as the physios go through their list. As soon as they step out to confer, he blasts Ginza remix while he waits, lets the noise drown out his head.

It seems to summon him, the door banging open before

“SI NECESITAS REGGAETON DALE, SIGUE BAILANDO MAMI NO PARE!”

Neymar fills the room as soon as he steps in.

It’s not even the right part of the song, but Rafinha doesn’t care.  Neymar shimmies his way across, shoulders bouncing and hips wiggling gracelessly, before dropping to sit by his feet.

“Y yo, hoy estoy aquí imaginándo, sexy baila y me deja con las ganas,” he croons at him.

Rafinha kicks out without any real intent and Neymar catches it easily, curls his fingers around the bare arch of his foot. He taps along to the beat on his sole, watches his face.

“You didn’t have to co—oy!” Rafinha tries to tug his foot away when he pinches at the heel, but Neymar holds on resolutely.

“Tu andas solo, también ando solo,” Neymar sings along, softer now. Rafinha catches his eyes as the corner of his mouth lifts.

He thinks one of them might say something, but he’s not sure which, or what, when the physios return. Neymar squeezes his foot reassuringly.

He looks up expectantly, breath caught in his throat.

There are words, “cleared” and “join the group” and “greenlight,” but he barely hears them. It’s Neymar’s whoop of delight that tells him he’s back.  

His face splits from the force of his own grin, hides it in Neymar’s shoulder when he grabs for Rafinha. He can barely feel the sting of Neymar’s enthusiastic slaps against his back.

“Eh, we just fixed him. Don’t hurt him already.”

“Never,” Neymar replies, and there’s no laughter in the promise.

 

 

He makes his return to two rows of teammates, cheering and clapping and smacking him when he runs through. During training, their touches are gentler, Munir’s arm thrown around his shoulder, Masche cupping the back of his neck. They leave room for him in their groups, let him slot back into place, like they’ve been waiting for him too. Arda pats his beard, Messi touches the small of his back and Iniesta strokes a hand over his hair. He learns all the ways people can say, “Welcome home.”

He hears it, waits for it to settle in.

 

 

Rafinha waits until the sky is burnished with twilight before calling.

His limbs ache, but it’s familiar, comforting. He lets his head fall back against the couch, eyes closed by the time Thiago answers.

“Welcome back.”

It feels like a knock to the chest, all the air suddenly whooshing out of Rafinha’s lungs, breath gone shaky from how long he’s held it. Maybe since he got cleared; maybe since he got injured. He gulps in air, like he somehow can’t seem to get enough, like there’s no more room left inside of him.

Thiago waits for him.

“Yeah,” Rafinha finally makes out gruffly.

“How’s it feel?”

“Like I’m still waiting…” he trails off. The list is so long and they have such little time these days.

“Rafa,” Thiago murmurs. It’s meant to be soothing, but it makes Rafinha turn his face. The leather is butter-soft but cool against his cheek, not nearly enough.

“I wish,” Rafinha begins.

It’s more than a broken leg, more than torn ligaments. It’s the feeling of his legs buckling beneath him. It’s the sound of his call going to voicemail while he bit his lips raw to keep silent. Before, he moved and believed his body would carry him through. Before, he knew the words, could say them aloud without hesitation. Now, he’s learned to be careful.

“I know,” Thiago finishes, the sound dragged out of him. Rafinha presses the heel of his hand against his eyelid.

“Come home.”

The slight hitch at the end exposes him, but it’s Thiago. The quiet voice in his ear, the hand on his ankle, the flashlight in the closet and the solid line of protection along his back. For as long as he can remember, it’s Thiago, and he could sooner live without his own heart.

In the end, he supposes it’s the same thing.

 

 

_There’s a hand on his forehead, and Rafinha trembles underneath it. He thinks he must’ve dreamed him here. He thinks he must love him a great deal to wield such a power. The hand moves along the curve of his head and it’s too wide, touch too rough, all wrong. His eyelids are impossibly heavy, move through sludge before lifting, and he still, believes. Because he’s never reached out and not found Thiago’s hand reaching back halfway._

_In a hospital room in Barcelona, Mazinho strokes his son’s hair as best he can. Somewhere above Zagreb, Thiago flies back to his own house, dreams of nothing._

 

 

There’s a hand on his forehead and for a second, he’s convinced he’s dreaming again.  

Instinct makes him tilt forward, inviting. He reaches out blindly, finds the hardened but giving curve of muscle tensing under skin. A bicep, he thinks, or maybe a shoulder, but he doesn’t care. This time, he’s right. This time, there’s a voice in his ear, giving him his own name, wrapping around him like a worn, striped blue blanket he’s kept carefully folded in his dresser. His nose meets wool when he slides forward and his mind jolts in refusal. It’s wrong, smells of Munich and airports and the places between. His hands aren’t steady when he fists them inside the fabric and drags it away, a noise of protest on the tip of his tongue.

Maybe Thiago helps, or maybe he manages through pure dogged desperation, but eventually it’s off. He buries his nose in the warm skin of his bare chest and inhales. It’s the first full breath he’s taken in months, makes him feel lightheaded, dizzy with relief.

 _Home, home, homehomehomehome_ , sings through his head like a mad chorus.

“Rafa,” he says again.

His heart shudders back into his body.

 

 

Rafinha wakes up alone.

His eyelashes flutter against his skin, face smashed into his bicep. He blinks and the past blinks back at him, permanently carved into him in dark ink. Arm and leg flung gracelessly around him, chin resting on his shoulder. Rafinha clings stubbornly and Thiago smiles, forever.

He turns his head and his beard rasps harshly against the image. There’s a note on the bedside table that tells him he didn’t imagine it, that Thiago " _had to run errands, be at dad’s by 8, wear smthn nice._ ” The corner of his mouth flicks up even as he rolls his eyes and climbs out of bed.

The mirror in the bathroom frames his face. Even in the morning light, his eyes seem brighter than they were. He scratches at his beard, watches the movement make his tattoo peek coyly up at his reflection. It takes a minute, but he finds the razor in the cupboard eventually. It comes off in curly tufts in the sink, and underneath, his cheeks are pink, more tender than he’s comfortable with but.

There he is, his face, returned to him.

 

 

 _Four, five_ , and so it goes, this familiar ringing refrain. He makes himself an omelet and eats it standing up, leaning against the kitchen counter. Rafinha eats alone and tries not to think about him here in the same city, close enough to feel, but too far to touch.

Thaisa calls as he’s washing his single plate.

“Why doesn’t Thiago know how surprise parties work?” She’s clearly exasperated and he hears metal scraping against metal in the background.

“Huh?”  He asks in confusion.

“Thiago. Our brother. Who’s throwing a surprise party for his wife, only it’s a surprise to the rest of us too, which means I have nothing to wear and am now forced to go shopping in the middle of a Sunday,” she rambles.

“Charge it to my card, eh,” he replies mechanically. He scrubs viciously at an invisible speck on the edge of the dish.

She scoffs at him.

“Please, it’s his last minute party, _he’s_ gonna be the one paying for it.”

He huffs in amusement. There’s fabric rustling in the background as she falls silent for a minute.

“Do you want me to drive you?”

It throws him off-balance, makes his hands still on the plate. It’s as though one day, he turned his head and when he looked back, she’d sprung three feet higher and learned all the lessons he had meant to teach her himself. He hates that he missed it.

“No, I’ll meet you there.”

“Promise,” she commands.

“Promise.”

 

 

He grabs at clothes, mostly at random and steps into them without sparing them a thought.

On the way out, like always, his fingers brush over the row of jerseys, reverently, like beads on a rosary. Barcelona, Spain, Bayern, like a prayer he can’t ever find the words for.

 

 

The drive seems shorter somehow, so he still feels off-kilter when he arrives. Maybe he should’ve called, because he’s not sure what he’s looking for here. But they never call, never bother with such politeness. It’s beneath them.

Neymar answers in a raggedy tank top and gray sweatpants. His hair’s still soft, which means he wasn’t expecting company, and Rafinha feels the same strange pang whenever he sees him like this. It makes him feel somehow irreparably older than Neymar.

He squints.

“Was I expecting you?” Neymar wants to know, but he’s already moving aside to let him in.

“No, I was just feeling charitable and decided to take pity on you.”

Neymar bows mockingly.

“Truly gracious, princesa.” He’s sticking up his middle finger when he straightens up again.

“Did you at least bring food? I’m starving.”

“So, order delivery.”

“You’re a terrible guest,” Neymar accuses, plopping back onto his couch.

“You’re a shitty host,” Rafinha returns.

Neymar’s grin flashes at him, bright and sudden as lightning. Rafinha falls into place beside him, lets himself float along on the ease, the weightlessness of this. Their knees are touching when Neymar hands him the second controller, while he scrolls through the list of players.

Neymar picks Lio first.

Neymar always picks Lio first.

Rafinha picks at random, clicks “Select” when Gigi Buffon’s patrician face fills the screen.

“Eh, you wanna just forfeit?”

“What?” Rafinha demands, eyebrows shooting up.

“Grandpa here,” he jabs a thumb in the direction of the screen.

“Gigi Buffon is a legend,” Rafinha reminds him imperiously.

“He’s an antique,” Neymar taunts. “I bet he sits around at home and reads classic poems in like, Latin, just cause he can.”

He glances at Rafinha out of the corner of his eye.

“He probably drinks tea on Friday nights  and manicures his bonsais.”

There’s amusement threaded into his voice that tells Rafinha the joke’s at his expense and not Buffon’s. He has to press his lips together when he smacks at the back of Neymar’s head.

“It’s an ancient Japanese art form, _puto_.”

“Ancient’s the key word. Who the hell’s gonna marry an indoor gardener?”

He’s laughing now and Rafinha has to shove at him, both hands against his back. Neymar’s never met a challenge he can resist, especially if he’s unlikely to win it. He cuffs Rafinha around the neck, ignoring the pounds of muscle he’s got on him. It takes Rafinha barely any effort to wriggle out.

When he slams into the floor, all Rafinha can think is, _Oh._ The impact sings through his body. They’re both breaking the promises they made the physios, but it’s not in Neymar to pull his punches. He thinks it’s all the same battlefield, has just enough self-awareness to know he’s gonna have to take a hit eventually. But he never cares how bruised or bloodied he gets as long as the other guy looks worse.

Neymar’s got him pinned, knees framing his hips. He bares his teeth, something more feral than a smile, and then he’s smushing his palm into Rafinha’s face.

Rafinha swings out blindly, catches hold of the edge of his hair, and yanks. Neymar jerks immediately, like his strings have been snapped, head tipping forward like it’s suddenly too heavy for his neck.

It’s eerily quiet in the room except for the cheery music of the FIFA menu and their panting, Neymar’s breath hot against his cheek.

Rafinha’s not sure which of them moves first but he feels it simultaneously: Neymar’s hard against his hip, and so is he.

He blinks, but it’s useless at clearing the lump in his throat. That’s the trouble.

Rafinha’s watching the cords in his neck as Neymar lifts his head, only far enough that he can meet his eyes, and.

None of this is new. It’s a familiar story, one that’s played out enough times that he remembers the scenes. If there’s enough champagne, enough joy, nothing counts anymore. But this is, not that. This is Neymar’s eyes on his, not the plush curve of his mouth. This is the silence stretching until it goes taut between them. This is him biting his lower lip, like he’s shy, or like he wants to _ask_ , and Rafinha thinks, _what?_ Because if he asks, Rafinha’s not sure he can say no.

He doesn’t.

He leans forward at the waist, seeking out his mouth, and there’s enough hesitation that Rafinha sees it play out before it happens.

He turns his head.

Neymar’s lips are unbearably soft against his cheek and he has to shut his eyes against it.

“I can’t,” he apologizes with absolute sincerity. He is. He thinks how simple it could be.

Neymar huffs against his cheek, mostly exasperation.

“Okay,” he replies agreeably. He shifts so his hips press into the carpet instead, but he doesn’t make any effort to move otherwise. Neymar’s torso is a comforting weight against his chest, tamping down on the restless ache that’s found itself a nook. Everywhere they touch, Rafinha’s warm.

“What’re you doing tonight?”

“Not you,” Neymar states in a somber voice. Rafinha’s stomach drops for a split second before he feels Neymar’s mirth rumbling against his chest.

Even this is easy.

“Nah, got a date anyway. Why?”

“With a person? A real one?” He asks incredulously.

Neymar pinches at the thin skin of his hip.

“She’s some model friend of Manuelli’s, hot, blonde. Tall as fuck, though. I hope she wears flats.”

“The hell’s she doing with you?”

“She’s into sexy Brazilians.”

“I repeat.”

Rafinha supposes he deserves it when Neymar headbutts his chin, but they’re both laughing, so he barely feels it at all.

When he leaves, three rounds of FIFA and a delivery order of Italian later, he’s nearly out the door before he glances back at Neymar. It’s just getting dark enough that the shadows move across his face. Rafinha can’t imagine the last few months without him, can’t see beyond the way Neymar’s shoved a place for himself into his life. He thinks he would’ve survived it, like losing an arm, but not without sacrificing his balance along with it.

“We’re okay, yeah?” He makes himself ask.

He’s not expecting it, nearly makes him start, but Neymar’s touch is shockingly gentle when it arrives. A brush of knuckles along the line of his jaw.

“Always,” he promises.

He smacks Rafinha’s ass as he’s leaving, so he supposes it’s true.

 

 

The house is already bustling with people, a mix of family and friends, by the time he gets there. Thaisa’s in the kitchen and she kisses both his cheeks when he elbows her side.

“Late,” she accuses.

“Better that than pregnant,” he answers serenely.

Bruno throws himself at his legs with a yell and Rafinha swings him up, rests him on the counter.

“No manners,” he reprimands, mussing up his hair.

“Says the late show.”

Rafinha knows he’s there a split second before he feels him against his back, hears his gently chiding voice in his hear. Thiago’s arm wraps around his chest from behind as he presses a kiss into his hair.

“It’s still 8,” he argues.

He rests a hand on the back of Thiago’s, one on the kitchen counter, and aches. It never feels simple or easy, but it feels _right._  The ball slamming into the back of the net, sunlight on his face and sand underneath his feet, his name in Thiago’s mouth. A sense of belonging. Thiago’s heart thuds against his back and Rafinha’s skips a beat just to fall in sync.

He swivels to face him, meets his eyes. The smile begins at the roots and blooms onto his mouth. Thiago cups his cheek in his hand, brushes the pad of his thumb along the sensitive skin.

“You’re really back.”

His joy crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Rafinha nearly sinks into the touch, but from afar, someone calls out Thiago’s name. He sees it all unravel before him, the way Thiago’s body instantly turns toward the sound, how the softness remains around his mouth. Like he knows instinctively who’s speaking his name.

His hand falls away and Rafinha flinches like he’s been struck.

It grabs him, rakes its claws through the tender insides. Desire is never this sharp, never twists until it wrings the marrow from his bones. He’s felt this before, the persistent pangs and the hollowness that stretches without end.

Hunger, vital and visceral.

It makes him down two glasses of champagne without sparing a breath. It makes him scarfs down handfuls of catànies. It makes his stand politely still when his mother kiss both his cheeks. She pats his shoulder adoringly, tells him how pleased she is to see him looking like himself again.

She’s saying something to him when Thiago’s crack of a laugh rings out in the room. One second, he’s listening to her, and the next, he’s parting his lips around Julia’s cake and sinking his teeth into the edge. It tastes sickly-sweet. He could gorge himself on it without ever feeling full.

When he lifts his head, he realizes that everyone’s turned in his direction. Thiago frowns at him, Bruno giggles into his palm and the guy filming it gives him a thumbs up. It’s too quiet.

Julia laughs.

It’s a kindness he might not deserve at that moment, but she does it anyway. Follows it by dipping her finger into the icing and booping him on the nose. Everyone seems to release their breath at the same time. Rafinha forces a smile at her.

When his eyes flick up, Thiago’s no longer frowning. There’s a little furrow between his brows that Rafinha knows well.

It had fascinated him far more than the geometry homework that Thiago was supposed to be helping him with. It flickered out and Rafinha thought, wrinkles are for old people, like his grandpa who’d died. Not for Thiago. Thiago was going to be with him, forever. Eventually, when he figured out the solution, it had disappeared, and the face Rafinha had memorized all the moods of was returned to him.

But it’s there now.

He’s not looking at him like he’s disappointed. He’s looking at him like he doesn’t understand.

And that’s.

He slips out just as a cheerful chorus of “Happy Birthday to You” starts up.

He jabs at the window buttons until the breeze invites itself inside the car. His skin’s too tight and his face is too hot, and his chest won’t stop throbbing. Like he can’t get enough air, like he can’t find his lungs.

The road turns before him and he lets it tug him along by his heartstrings. The cold trails its fingers along his bare neck, over his flushed cheeks when he steps out at the Carretera. He drops to sit onto a boulder. He’s grateful for the way the chill spreads through his limbs, until it’s the most urgent sensation.

He scrubs a hand roughly over his face.

He feels lost, like he’s been set adrift without the promise of land on the horizon. Unmoored. There is a moon in the sky but the clouds have wiped out the rest. Even the stars deny him.

Barcelona shines as bright as ever before him, but tonight, it is only a city.

He can’t.

He remembers a time before Barcelona, the city, the club. A time before Neymar, before Bruno and Thaisa, when his parents only argued in mild tones. There once was a moment before football.  

But there has never been a time before Thiago.

He presses the heel of his hand into his eyes.

Even before he’s opened them, he hears the particular sound of footsteps on gravel.

“How’d you know?” He asks blindly.

Thiago doesn’t say anything as he sinks down onto the boulder beside him, carefully. They aren’t touching.  

“I always know.” He sets the words down heavily.

“Rafa, I came home.”

“Yeah.”

“For you,” he emphasizes.

“And tomorrow, we’ll both be gone.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

He _can’t_.

Rafinha pries his eyes open to peer out over the city, and remembers what it felt like in the beginning. Fresh and bright and full of promise. Remembers what it was to love without choking on it.

His lips crack open from the pressure.

“You didn’t answer.”

He’s carried the words around his neck since the night he got injured, for nearly half a year, and they slip away so easily.  

More than the pain,  more than the hopelessness, he remembers being alone. 

“Rafa,” Thiago whispers, voice grief-stricken. “I.”

It seems fitting that he should sound how Rafinha feels.

He wants to climb into his lap and press his nose into his neck and know, with absolute, unerring certainty, that Thiago will be there in the morning. It’s a child’s wish, but he’s been making it each day since he was one. There are secret places where the pain settles, that he can’t see or touch, but Thiago always knows how to find them. How to soothe, how to heal. Rafinha never learned how to do it alone.

Minutes fall by the wayside in silence. He waits without knowing what for.

“When I heard, it was like losing my own...” He starts to say before shaking his head slowly. “I couldn’t protect you.”

“I don’t need you to,” he replies sincerely. “I just. I’m useless by myself.” Even to his own ears, his voice  sounds small.

“You’re not,” Thiago insists, dark eyes fierce. “You’re never. It’s always you and me.”

Rafinha glances down as the moonlight catches on the gold band on his finger that binds him elsewhere.

“Even now?”

Thiago turns to him, surprise in the way his eyes go slightly wide, eyebrows tilted.

“Always, Rafi.”

Rafinha releases a shaky breath. 

“I will always come home to you.”

Rafinha reaches out his hand, spanning the distance between their two bodies. Halfway there, he finds Thiago's, like he's been waiting for him.

Here, now, with his fingers entwined with Thiago's and the night enveloping them both, it feels like it's always felt for Rafinha. Like it's just the two of them. Like it'll always be just the two of them in this whole world.

He holds on, lets himself believe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you leave me a comment, i will cherish it like the first mango of monsoon season.
> 
> feel free to come join in on the yelling [here](ourseparatedcities.tumblr.com)!


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